Before You Can Shout Boo!
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: There's goblins and ghouls and ghosts, murder and mystery and mayhem! It must be Halloween! Advent!fic. One drabble, each day, every day, for the month of October. Unrelated drabbles featuring Sherlock and John preparing for Halloween. NOW COMPLETE with a Boo-nus chapter!
1. October 1st

**Before You Can Shout 'Boo!'**

**October 1st**

Sherlock can't place the tune of whatever John is humming. It's acutely irritating and it makes Sherlock want to cover his ears. John isn't _singing_- Sherlock never gets the privilege of words- but the tune drifts throughout the flat throughout the day.

It must be some sort of dastardly payback for all the times Sherlock has left experiments unattended or left the milk go bad or scraped away mindless pieces on his violin at two in the morning. It _had_ to be... because it was driving Sherlock crazy.

Finally, Sherlock shuffles over on the sofa, turning to look at John. "What are you humming?"

John glances up from his book. "What?"

"Humming. You've been humming. What is it?"

John blinks, thinks. "Oh! 'This is Halloween'. Off of _The Nightmare Before Christmas_?"

Sherlock stares blankly. "'The Night_mare_ Before Christmas?'"

"Yeah. It's a movie. Disney. My God, Sherlock, how have you never _The Nightmare Before Christmas_? It's the perfect movie for you."

Sherlock sighs, trying to shift his head into a more comfortable position on the armrest. "Disney. Not really my area."

"_Nothing_ is your area-"

"Except murder," Sherlock interrupts.

"Well, _Nightmare Before Christmas_'s main character is a skeleton."

Sherlock pauses. He thinks about it for a moment, dredging up the very little knowledge of Disney movies that he has. "Animated?" he asks.

"It's, uhm, well, clay-a-mation."

Sherlock looks back at John blankly.

"The figures were made out of clay and... well, it's not animated."

Sherlock steeples his fingers beneath his chin thoughtfully. "Do you own a copy?"

John raises his eyebrows. "I don't own a copy of anything Disney."

"Hmm." Sherlock closes his eyes, falling silent.

The idea of a Disney movie- a name well known for animated children's films- does not sit well on his mind, but the thought of a skeleton being a lead character was faintly intriguing.

"Why? I could rent it. I haven't seen it a long time... It's October 1st... Perfect thing to bring in the holiday season with, actually..."

Sherlock waves his hand, aiming for a dismissive air. "If you must."

John grins. "I'll call the video store later," he says, before looking back to his book.

Sherlock thinks for another moment. "If the main character is a skeleton, why is 'Christmas' in the title?"

John doesn't look up this time. "Skeleton's trying to take over Christmas."

Sherlock opens his eyes, looking at the corner where the ceiling met the wall. "John, call the video store now."

"What?"

"Video store. Now. We're going out." Sherlock swung himself onto his feet, stepping over the coffee table. His dressing gown slipped off of one shoulder and his T-shirt draped past his collarbone as he padded back towards his bedroom.

* * *

**It's a Halloween advent!fic! Because I really haven't seen these type of holiday countdowns... and I love Halloween... and it's totally perfect for Sherlock even if he doesn't celebrate anything...**

**Anyway, if you haven't seen _The Nightmare Before Christmas_, you have not LIVED. Because it is so freaking adorable. Jack is so adorable. I love Jack. And Zero. And Sally. (Sally is totally just like Molly *o*) The Mayor is creepy and Oogie Boogie is... well, he's Oogie Boogie. And I've seen this movie like twenty times and I can still babble. So, I'll probably bring this movie up again later in this fic, along with pumpkin guts and trick or treat and costumes and so on.**

**I do not own _Sherlock_ or _The Nightmare Before Christmas_. Your trick-or-treat-tactular thoughts would be appreciated! Thank you!**


	2. October 2nd

**October 2nd**

Sherlock lifts his head, yawning widely, so widely that it brings tears to his eyes and he rethinks not going to bed early. His gaze falls on John, who's rooting around through a cardboard box that had been recently in storage.

"What are you doing...?" he questions lazily, pushing his fingers back through his hair.

"Halloween decorations," John said, pulling out a strand of what seemed to be black gauze.

"And this involves gauze how?"

"It's a strand of lights. They're on the gauze. And... gauze is traditional Halloween? I don't know. The gore and decay stuff."

Sherlock stifles another yawn, turning over on his stomach so he could better watch John in his idle holiday prepping. "If you get me a dead body, I'll hang it on the door," he comments, resting his chin on the armrest.

"Oh, I've got a skeleton... Somewhere in storage, probably. We could hang the skeleton on our flat door, probably not the front door."

"When you say 'skeleton', you mean a fake skeleton, don't you?" Sherlock intones.

"Of course. We're not hanging a real skeleton _anywhere_, Sherlock," John muttered. "Oh, here you go."

He hands over a piece of styrofoam, setting it on the armrest next to Sherlock's head. Sherlock lets his eyes rove over the 'decoration'- it's a fake dismembered foot on a styrofoam tray, fake blood and all. It's a cheap and terrible imitation of the real thing, Sherlock thinks.

"Lovely," he says instead, moving his head down a bit. "But I have all of this stuff in the refrigerator."

Sherlock can practically hear John's eyes rolling. "Well, it shouldn't be there," John reminds him for the umpteenth time. For the umpteenth time, Sherlock pays him no mind.

"I'm not allowing to have my dismembered feet in the fridge, but you place dismembered feet around the flat for decoration? I find this horribly unfair," he said lazily.

"That's life," John replies as he pulls out a fake bat.

"You'll frighten Mrs Hudson to death," Sherlock says, fighting a sleepy smile.

"Is it terribly cruel to hang it in the doorway?" John asks absently, looking up.

Sherlock closes his eyes. "If you have to ask me that, I think you already know the answer."

John laughs quietly and continues to rummage through the box. Sherlock drifts off with the mental picture of Mrs Hudson shrieking over the fake bat and bloody feet littering the flat.

* * *

**Why use fake bloody feet when there's perfectly accessible bloody feet in the fridge? Well... sanitation? :p**


	3. October 3rd

**October 3rd**

Sherlock perks up when he walks into the flat, immediately smelling what seems to be pumpkin. Not that John would know this, but Sherlock actually _does_ like pumpkin pie. Or any type of pie, really. He's more a pie person than a cake person, when he decides to eat sweets at all (which is usually not at all).

"Are you making sweets?" he asks absent-mindedly, unlooping his scarf from around his neck.

"What? No. Carving pumpkins."

"Oh." He forces the disappointment out of his voice and hangs his coat up, walking into the kitchen. "Why are you doing that? I think that they're going to rot out before Halloween."

John shrugs. "I'm just doing little designs right now. Typical triangle eyes and stuff."

"Dull," Sherlock murmurs, going to the kettle only to find it empty. He sighs and goes to the fridge. "Are you going to be doing this all month?"

"Doing what?" John asks distractedly, eyes on the pumpkin.

"This Halloween thing."

"Probably."

Sherlock sighs again and paws around in the refrigerator, finding a half-gallon of apple cider. He tilts his head slightly. Maybe Halloween isn't such a bad thing...

What is _happening_ to him?

He grabs the apple cider and goes to find a mug, eyeing the pile of what John calls pumpkin guts sitting on the table.

"Don't," John says suddenly.

Sherlock sips at his cider. "I didn't do anything."

"You're thinking about it."

Sherlock hides his smile behind his mug. "You can't tell what I'm thinking."

"Yeah, I can."

Sherlock laughs to himself and turns away... planning to get the pumpkin guts out of the trash later that night, of course.

* * *

**Even though cold apple cider isn't that good. Actually, I only think hot apple cider is tolerable. Baker Street smelling like Halloween just seems very home-y, though.**


	4. October 4th

**October 4th**

"_Nightmare Before Christmas_?" Lestrade asks suddenly.

Sherlock looks away from the decapitated body, frowning towards Lestrade. "Pardon me?"

"You were humming."

Sherlock shifts and looks back at the body. "Was I?"

"Yes," Lestrade says. Amused. "I think it was 'Jack's Lament' From _The Nightmare Before Christmas_."

Sherlock frowns. "I don't think I was."

"You were," Lestrade replies immediately.

Footsteps approach but Sherlock doesn't look up. He knows, from the slight favouring in one leg, that John has returned from getting coffees from the nearby petrol station.

"What's up?" John asks. "Any luck?"

"I don't think so. He was too busy humming," Lestrade says.

"I was not humming."

"Humming what?" John inquires.

"I was not humming," Sherlock repeats.

"'Jack's Lament.'"

Laughter follows, very clearly John's.

Sherlock straightens his shoulders defiantly, nostrils flaring.

"Well, I got him to watch the movie for the first time a few days ago. There's a part in that song that says something about Jack taking off his head... maybe the decapitation dredged up the lyrics in his mind palace?" John jokes.

Sherlock sighs and straightens. "Your murderer is the post carrier."

"Are you sure it's not the mayor?" Lestrade says cheerfully.

Sherlock transfers his gaze to stare at Lestrade. "How do you know so much about this movie, Detective Inspector?" he asks dryly.

"I have nieces and nephews," Lestrade replies. "And it's October. It's, like, a rite of passage for October."

Sherlock blows out a breath in a huff and shoves his hands in his pockets. "Come on, John. I was thinking maybe getting a pizza tonight."

There is nothing else better to derail John than the mention of food.

John looks at him. "Pizza?"

"Mhmm."

"Sorry, Greg. We're off," John says.

As they're walking away, Lestrade calls "Might want to make it a movie night!"

"I just saw the movie three days ago!" Sherlock retorts. "I remember it all perfectly, thank you!"

John looks at him. "You mean you haven't deleted it?" he asks, laughing again.

Sherlock shoves his hands further in his pockets. It takes all his determination not to sulk.

* * *

**Not sure if this story is garnering much attention, but, nonetheless, I hope the people who are reading it are still enjoying it. :)**


	5. October 5th

**October 5th**

Sherlock bounds into the flat, coming to a sudden stop when he finds crime scene tape stretched across the doorway.

His mind first jumps to John. Then it jumps to previous experiments, wondering if he'd left anything flammable, explosive, or poisonous out within reach of his flatmate. He can't recall anything. Drugs bust? There's no reason for Lestrade to initiate a drugs bust and there are no cop cars out on Baker Street.

"John?" he calls, pushing the police tape aside and striding into the sitting room. "John?"

He doesn't get a response, so instead he starts to look around the flat. Sitting room- pillows thrown from the sofa, books scattered, newspapers ripped and the drawers from the end table, bookcase, and storage table. He slowly turns to the kitchen. A few beakers lay broken on the floor and a chair is overturned.

"John...?"

Sherlock frowns and edges back towards his bedroom. Nothing out of the ordinary there. He backtracks and looks into the bathroom... his stomach dropping out.

Blood is all over the bathroom, splattered onto the mirror and a collected pool of crimson on the floor. The window is broken, there's shards of glass all over the floor.

Sherlock swallows and grabs his phone from his jacket pocket, dialling John's number. This should have been his first plan of action.

The buzzing of the vibration of a phone responds. Sherlock removes his mobile from his ear, still hearing the buzzing. Carefully, he steps around the puddle of blood and looks around the floor, finding John's mobile laying there.

His mind kicks into hyperdrive and he ends the connection to John's phone, quickly dialling Lestrade's. When he doesn't answer, Sherlock swears and turns, striding from the bathroom. His foot steps into the pool of blood and he stops after taking only another step.

That blood had been thick. Almost sticky, he thinks, as his shoe sticks to the bathroom linoleum.

Sherlock frowns and turns again, crouching next to the pool of blood. He takes off a glove and dips his fingers into it. It _is_ sticky, where it, looking so fresh, should be runny. Frowning, Sherlock licks it off of his fingers... finding that it tastes just like-

"Corn syrup."

He stands quickly, turning to face John.

John's standing in the doorway, laughing. "Corn syrup with red food colouring."

Sherlock simply stares at him.

"Gotcha," John adds, his grin growing wider.

"... A prank?" Sherlock muses. "Wonderful," he adds dryly, pulling off both of his gloves and starting back for the sitting room. "I am not cleaning this up," he adds, taking off his coat.

John follows him. "Don't give me that nonchalant stuff. I got you. You were worried. You thought something happened to me. That's nice. You know, to know that you actually care."

Sherlock ignores him, hanging up his coat and going to pour himself a cup of tea.

"You're a good flatmate, Sherlock... even if you do a lot of annoying stuff," John says, turning back to the hallway. He's still chuckling.

Sherlock thinks the fact that he just got pranked and _then_ called a 'good flatmate' is the most insulted he's felt all week.

John was rude.

... He'd just have to get him back.

* * *

**Uh oh. :)**


	6. October 6th

**October 6th**

The first time that Sherlock walks into a cobweb, John thinks it's the funniest thing _ever_.

Of course, Sherlock's walked into cobwebs before. Consulting detective and all that; he's been in a lot of weird places, lots of cobwebs. It comes with the territory. Despite that, walking into a cobweb never gets any _better_.

Sherlock scrubs his hands across his face, muttering under his breath.

"Your face was _hilarious_," John chuckles.

Sherlock can't help the involuntary shiver that crawls down his spine. "Alright, you go ahead first next time and take the cobwebs down," he whispers.

"It wouldn't matter. You're taller than me," John replies quietly.

"It's disgusting," Sherlock mutters, pushing his fingers back through his hand.

"Don't like spiders?"

"I have no problem with spiders. It's just the spider _webs_ that make my skin crawl."

"I'll put up some fake cobweb in our flat," John jokes as they creep through the abandoned house.

"Thanks so much," Sherlock mutters. "We don't need _fake_ cobweb. We have real cobweb in three of four corners in the sitting room."

John frowns. "Why don't you actually, I don't know, knock them down?"

"With what?"

"A broom?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "I'll keep it in mind-" He stops walking as he feels another cobweb touch his face. He steps backwards, bumping into John.

"Woah, what- what are you doing?"

Sherlock grips John's shoulders and pushes him ahead. John stumbles and then- "ugh, Sherlock!"

Sherlock smiles sardonically and continues ahead.

John's not too short, after all. Sherlock thinks he's just the right size.

* * *

**Because cobwebs are sort of Halloweeny and they are disgusting.**


	7. October 7th

**October 7th**

"What are you watching?" Unwittingly, it's the first question out of Sherlock's mouth and he wonders briefly if he's going to regret that. He almost regrets _The Nightmare Before Christmas_. Decent movie (for animation), but the music was stupidly memorable and he finds himself humming it over idle-minded experiments. Habit he's trying to kick. He'd rather focus on nicotine patches.

"Sleepy Hollow."

Sherlock stretches, tilting his head a few degrees to the left. "Isn't that Johnny Depp?"

John glances up. "How did you know?"

"Because he's ridiculously popular and I'm not terribly ignorant."

"I bet there was a case where someone looked like him," John says, looking back at the television.

Sherlock doesn't admit that he's right. (Why else would he know? He has no time for such trivial matters as popular celebrities and famous movies.) "The legend of the headless horseman, yes?"

"Yes."

Sherlock leans back against the doorframe, rubbing the back of his neck. "Ichabod Crane's afraid of spiders?"

John snickers."Mhmm. I guess. I'm not sure how true this is to the original story, but it's funny. He's not really how I picture Crane."

"Definitely not," Sherlock replies.

While unsure of how it happens, Sherlock ends up sliding to the floor, sitting cross-legged in the doorway while watching the movie. John seems unaware of him until-

"This is cheesy," Sherlock mumbles, watching the headless horseman on the screen.

John jumps and glances around, before spotting him on the floor. "What are you doing?"

"I'm watching _Sleepy Hollow_?" Sherlock says, in the tone of a question.

Fortunately, screaming on the television draws John's attention away and Sherlock does not have to elaborate.

He yawns sometime in between a burning building and Crane riding a horse backwards. Funny enough, he misses the end of the movie because he falls asleep. The scenario, perhaps a better scenario, actually, plays out in his dreams.

Crane failed. The girl was killed. The headless horseman killed a London businessman. The murder went unsolved, because there was only a body, no dentals, no fingerprints, nothing that Scotland Yard in all of its terrible glory could figure out. Sherlock was called onto the case (never mind the time difference (it was a dream, after all)), ended up being pursued by the horseman. Unlike Crane, Sherlock prevailed in banishing the horseman, defying all logic and once again winning the game... Even if no one would believe the tale from his own lips.

When he wakes up, John questions what he's smiling about and all Sherlock says is

"Ichabod Crane".

* * *

**Oh, Johnny Depp and his lovely Ichabod Crane. Although there's another version of _Sleepy Hollow_ on telly right now and the Crane in that one is oh so gorgeous, too... Never mind me. :) I'm just breaking out the Hallow's Eve movies.**

**I do not own _Sleepy Hollow_ of any kind or _Sherlock_. :)**

**Thanks for your reviews thus far! 24 days 'til Halloween!**


	8. October 8th

**October 8th**

Sherlock peers over John's shoulder. "What's the big deal?"

There's a group of people clustered on the sidewalk, members of Scotland Yard included.

"There's a cat," John replies, smiling faintly to himself as the cat in question winds its way around Lestrade's leg.

Sherlock resists the urge to sigh. "I can see that. But why is everyone making such a big deal over it? It's not as though we haven't seen cats before."

"It's a black cat," John remarks.

Sherlock feels like asking why that's such a big deal for the third time would be a waste of breath. He sighs this time and shoves his hands in his pockets.

"Black cats are bad luck," John explains. "So they say."

"'They'? Who's 'they'?" Sherlock asks, flickering his gaze back to the cat. "And why is black considered bad luck? I enjoy black."

John sweeps his gaze over Sherlock briefly. "Yes, I can see that. Given most of your wardrobe is black... but I don't know," he says, raising his voice. "It's been a superstition for a long time."

"Oh..." Sherlock nods. His mind wanders back to the case of the green ladder. "Like walking under ladders. Superstitions are pointless."

"Says the man who doesn't even believe eight hours of sleep is beneficial every night." John crouches down as the cat pads over. He reaches out his hand, lets the cat sniff his fingers, and then scratches behind the cat's ears. "But, black cat or not, it's really cute."

"It's not all black," Sherlock says, analysing the cat. "It's got a white paw."

John smiles. "Oh, so it does."

"John, I won't tolerate animals in our flat," Sherlock says, watching John's exchange with the feline.

"Yeah, it's someone else's cat, Sherlock, it's wearing a collar. I'm not going to take it home."

Sherlock pauses before crouching down, too, reaching out to pet the cat.

It happens in a heartbeat; the cat lashes out and there's a sudden sting against Sherlock's hand. He pulls away to find scratches now welling blood across his knuckles.

"Sherlock!" John mutters, grabbing his wrist to look at the scratches.

Sherlock sighs and pulls his wrist free, standing. "It's fine, John. It's just a scratch."

"No, at least you need to disinfect it. I'm sure Greg's got a first-aid kit..."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Just a scratch, John. I've had worse."

"Yes, but I'm not letting it get _more_ worse."

Sherlock drums his fingers impatiently as John finds an alcohol wipe and cleans the wound. This is the one thing he hates about having a doctor for his best friend. It's nice sometimes, when he doesn't want to go to hospital for stitches or concussions, but for a cat scratch? It's just annoying.

"I can see why you don't want pets," John mutters, smoothing a plaster over the wound. "They hate you."

Sherlock scoffs. "I can't see how _you_ would _want_ pets. You panic over a cat scratch."

John just rolls his eyes.

It's probably not such a bad thing. Pets probably aren't good for either of them, anyway. Or rather, they're not good for pets.

Sherlock stifles a smile and runs his fingers over the new plaster.

* * *

**Woah, where'd this fluff come from in a Halloween story? Anyway, yeah, this story is ending up not being to Halloween-y, but, unlike Christmas, there's only so much you can do with Halloween. So I'm trying to work in some elements that make you think of Halloween. :)**


	9. October 9th

**October 9th**

Sherlock jolts awake when someone shakes his shoulder roughly. "Huh? What? What's wrong?" He notices that it's John and he relaxes, yawning widely. "Oh, it's you."

"Is there any reason that you've fallen asleep with candy corn all over you?" John asks, seeming to be restraining laughter.

Sherlock tilts his head and sits up a little more, candy corn cascading from his shirt. "Oh." He catches a few of the pieces in his lap and dumps them onto the coffee table. "I was experimenting..."

John laughs. "Yeah, right. Did that involve eating a bunch of it?"

"It's... alright, I guess," Sherlock says, gathering a few more pieces of the candy.

"Wait, have you never had candy corn?"

Sherlock gives him a look. "Why would I?"

"... As a kid?"

"Hardly. We were lucky if we went trick-or-treating," Sherlock retorts, trying _not_ to think of the two times that he and Mycroft had done such a thing.

"Have you had Indian corn?"

"_Indian_ corn?"

John picks up one of the candies and pops it into his mouth. "It's got chocolate."

Sherlock wrinkles his nose. "What's the point? It doesn't taste like anything but sugar, anyway. It's not bad but it's certainly not pumpkin pie."

"Is that a hint?" John flops into his chair.

"I can get it myself if you don't want to. I can bake."

John frowns. "_Really_? You?"

Sherlock scowls at him. "Unlike you think, I am not completely helpless in the kitchen. You forget that I lived alone before you. And I had a rubbish landlord before," he mutters.

"Prove it."

Sherlock smirks and picks up a piece of candy corn. "I don't feel like it right now." He nibbles on it. "Perhaps later. Besides, we don't have any pie pumpkins _or_ pumpkin filling. The former would make for the best pie, though."

"I'll go shopping tomorrow," John replies. "And you can prove it."

Sherlock shrugs a shoulder. "Fine." He pauses. "John?"

"Hm?"

"Pick up some Indian corn while you're out? I need to do another experiment."

* * *

**Indian corn is better, in my opinion. Candy Corn M&Ms are good, too... but not too Halloweenish.**


	10. October 10th

**October 10th**

"It's got to be a vampire," Lestrade muttered.

"This has to happen in October..."

"Quite coincidental, isn't it?" Lestrade joked, crossing his arms and raising his voice. "Alright, Sherlock, what's the logical cause?"

Sherlock let out an annoyed breath, not standing. His eyes once again roved over the discolouration of the puncture marks on the victim's neck, the ghastly pallor not usually so prominent in a dead man.

"Well, Sherlock?" John added.

Sherlock finally stood, drawing his coat close to him. "Your idle-minded comments about something that is frankly impossible makes this so much more irritating than it already is."

Yes, he was always interested in a case. Yes, the victim having puncture wounds on their neck and their blood entirely drained was interesting. Yes, he was glad to have taken the case.

However, hearing John and Lestrade babble on about vampires like two schoolboys just annoyed him. It was cold, it was starting to drizzle, and Scotland Yard seemed to be more on edge than usual.

"For the last time, it is not _vampires_," Sherlock said. "If you're entertaining such a wild idea, you're clearly not on par to be a detective. There is no proof to say that vampires in the you think of them exist."

"Is there any proof that they don't?" Lestrade countered.

Sherlock sighed heavily. While the conversation about vampires was something he could save for another day, he would rather _never_ have it with Scotland Yard. Instead, he pressed on with the case, striding away into the flat.

Ten minutes later of inspecting the flat and surrounding areas, Sherlock had a good idea of the manner of the murder.

"Poison," he said bluntly, looking at Lestrade. "The neighbour three doors down let a poisonous snake roam free in this house, put it there intentionally, lured it... and the victim got bit in the neck. The girlfriend came home to find her beau unconscious, put two and two together, and tried to suck the poison out of the wound, to no avail. Interesting," he added, before turning and walking out of the flat.

"Oi, Sherlock! What about the blood being drained?"

"It's not my job to work on your fine details, Lestrade," Sherlock called back. "I found the cause of death and the murderer; I'll leave you to hash out the rest!"

When John caught up with him, he was quick to bring up the blood as well. "You don't know, do you?" he asked.

Sherlock didn't look at him. "I'm thinking."

"Which means you don't know."

Sherlock put his hands in his pockets. "Thinking, John. I need to think."

"Yeah, let me know when you figure it out," John muttered.

* * *

**Thank you to SherlockWholmes for mentioning a victim drained of blood, which reminded me of _The Sussex Vampire_! And a little bit of _The Speckled Band_(Blonde =p) incorporated as well.**

**Also, I'm so so sorry for changing from present tense to past tense but I really feel limited with present, as much as I like the way it sounds, I just feel inhibited writing it.**


	11. October 11th

**October 11th**

John shivered.

Sherlock sighed. "Must you?"

John shot him a half-hearted glare. "Must I what? It's cold out here."

"No colder than the last crime scene and you didn't shiver there. Taking into consideration of the time of year and where we are, you _probably_ aren't shivering because of the sub-par temperatures," Sherlock said.

John huffed. "I'm fine."

"I didn't ask if you were fine."

"What do you want from me, Sherlock?"

Oh, so John was in a mood. Sherlock mentally backtracked, trying to think of anything that he might have done to annoy John more than usual. He came up with nothing and realised that maybe it was just the atmosphere.

"You're scared," Sherlock said bluntly.

John's defences immediately went up. "I am not!"

"Halloween at a graveyard... gloomy weather... it's almost nightfall..." Sherlock trailed off. "Knowing you, your mind has immediately jumped to the idea of ghosts and goblins, maybe that something is about to jump out at you..."

Twigs cracked somewhere nearby. Before Sherlock could think of their potential suspect, John had grabbed a hold of his arm.

The twigs crackling turned out to be a squirrel, although Sherlock figured that out far before John. Slowly, he looked away from the tree and at John, and then very deliberately at John's hand clutching his arm.

John stepped away so fast that he almost tripped over a tombstone.

Sherlock smiled triumphantly.

"Oh, shut up!" John exclaimed, his face turning red.

"Army doctor..." Sherlock muttered under his breath.

John shoved his hands in his pockets and strode ahead.

Sherlock laughed to himself, following his flatmate.

* * *

**Thanks to DreamsofPari for the idea of graveyards. :)**


	12. October 12th

**October 12th**

Sherlock rubbed his nose. The smell of pumpkin was pervading the kitchen and it made his nose itch. No, he didn't _dislike_ pumpkin- that was the whole point here- but pumpkins had a strange, almost earthy smell that, while familiar, made his nose itch.

He pinched a bit of the spice and added it to the pie filling, letting the scent fill his nostrils. He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, holding it in his lungs for a moment. He let it out slowly and reopened his eyes, turning back to his pie.

For whatever reason, Sherlock found baking therapeutic. Not that he would admit that to anyone, because most people (John included) probably thought that he couldn't bake or cook at all. Well, he could... he just opted not to most of the time because it took a good while to get the perfect pastry or dish. And, usually, he didn't have a good while. He was only doing this right now because he'd twisted his ankle last night falling into an empty grave and John was making him stay home today.

He mixed the pie filling up further, making sure that all of the components were incorporated properly. When he was satisfied, he poured the filling into the pie crust and, after wrapping the edges of the pie pan in aluminium foil to prevent spilling, he pushed it into the centre of the rack in the oven.

Three hours later, when John got home, Sherlock was curled up on the sofa, content with his stomach full with three slices of pumpkin pie. He was half dozing, until he heard John make a comment about the pie, something about did Mrs Hudson buy it and Sherlock raised his head indignantly.

"No, I made it. I said I would. You made me stay home so I made pumpkin pie," Sherlock said. "And it is better than any store-bought pie."

John hummed in contemplation. "You know your argument's pretty weak, because you _never_ do dishes of any mess you make and there are none."

Sherlock huffed and rolled over, facing the back of the sofa.

John puttered about in the kitchen for a moment- water running to fill the kettle, cabinet opening to grab the canister of tea leaves, fridge opening and closing without any rustling, John had been looking for a snack- before his movement brought him back to the sitting room. Sherlock heard him drop his keys on the study table and then stop. Sherlock felt eyes on the back of his head.

"What's in your hair?" John asked suddenly.

Sherlock didn't know what was in his hair, or even if there anything was, but he didn't make a move to check for himself.

But John's fingers took it upon themselves to figure it out because Sherlock felt something poking about in his hair. Sherlock resisted the urge to sigh.

"It looks like pumpkin."

That, Sherlock concluded, would be disgusting and warranted a shower. He did not want dried pumpkin, pumpkin innards, or pumpkin seeds in his hair.

"You actually did bake that, didn't you?" John asked.

"Of course I did. Why would I lie about something as stupid as that?" Sherlock muttered, swinging his legs from the couch and sitting up.

"It just looks professional."

"Thank you," Sherlock said sarcastically. He got to his feet. "You're welcome to a piece. Or two; whatever you would like."

"Only two? You've already had three."

Sherlock smiled and trotted back towards the bathroom.

* * *

**Sherlock ****_can_**** bake and cook! (At least in my headcanon.) And isn't it just ****_beautiful_**** picture that well-dressed, curly-haired, tall, dark, and handsome consulting detective cooking? I think so.**


	13. October 13th

**October 13th**

"If only today was Friday," Sherlock voiced aloud.

John looked at him. "Hmm?"

"It's the 13th," Sherlock replied lazily. "I said I wished it was Friday."

"_Why_?"

"Friday the 13th is a great day. Everyone's jumpy and they all stay in their own flat. I don't have to deal with their idiocy."

John rolled his eyes. "Of course you would. You know, I'm surprised that you _know_ about Friday the 13th, Mr Solar-"

"Stop."

"- System."

Sherlock scowled. "I am not totally clueless when it comes to trivial things."

John raised his eyebrows. "Yeah, you are." Condescending tone.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "You find my lack of intelligence on stupid things funny. I still don't understand."

John yawned slightly, nudging the pillow that Sherlock's ankle was resting on over to set his mug down on the table. "Because you know about Friday the 13th but don't know the Prime Minister. Or about classic movies."

Sherlock crossed his feet at the ankles, mindful of the twisted one. "I know how to make pie. And I know how to solve a murder with one glance. And-"

"_Okay_, you don't have to keep building yourself up. I know how great you are."

Sherlock looked up. "You're being sarcastic," he accused, looking at John.

John just smiled and looked back at the television.

Sherlock stared at him for a moment longer before looking away slowly, leaning more comfortably against John's shoulder.

* * *

**Apologies- my creativity is lacking. It's a busy week. :p So some platonic fluff to make up for it. Hopefully the people that are still reading it are still enjoying it. Like I said, I know it's been a bit boring lately.**


	14. October 14th

**October 14th**

"Sherlock, where in the _hell_ did you get a cauldron?"

Sherlock looked up disinterestedly. "Oh, you're back."

"That did not answer my question. What are you boiling in there?" John asked, leaning over the cauldron and immediately backing up, coughing slightly. "Sherlock-"

"You shouldn't have breathed in the vapours," Sherlock retorted. He himself had a mask on. If John hadn't been able to make the connection, then it was hardly his fault. "It doesn't exactly smell pleasant."

John had taken a few steps back, trying to wave away the odour with his hand. "Yeah," he coughed. "I did notice. It smells like burning flesh-" He stopped suddenly. "Sherlock..."

"It was only the deep-freezed eyes, John."

"That doesn't explain why you're boiling them!" John retorted loudly.

Sherlock smiled and looked back at the boiling mixture. "Eye of newt..." he muttered under his breath, lips twisting into a full-blown grin.

"But those aren't newt eyes!"

Sherlock's face fell only slightly. "Never mind, John. I'm working, anyway. This is all for a case... well, it will be eventually, anyway."

"An experiment to see how fast eyeballs melt? Get rid of it!"

"It's a witch's brew!" Sherlock announced, grabbing a beaker of chemicals from nearby and throwing it into the cauldron. It sizzled ominously and bubbled. Sherlock's grin once again returned and he leaned back, just in case the solution would decide to froth over the edges of the cauldron.

"Sherlock, you are not a witch... I don't think," John muttered under his breath, "so, by design, you have no reason to have a brew in our kitchen. Now get rid of it."

"In a-" Sherlock frowned, watching the bubbles. It really _was_ bubbling up quickly. "Ah." Thinking that he needed something to dilate the solution, he reached for his the saline solution.

"Sherlock-"

"Just a moment."

"Sherlock-"

"Just- oh, sod it all," Sherlock muttered, pushing away from the countertop and scrambling away from the kitchen.

He grabbed John's arm to stop him moving and had just turned around in time to watch his solution of a Halloween-ish sort explode. All over the kitchen and cabinets and sink and table, splotches and purple and green and blotches of murky white.

Sherlock could practically _feel_ John vibrating with tension.

"... I'll clean it up," Sherlock said thinly.

"Oh, I know you will," John said, forced cheerfulness in his voice.

"... I'll, mm, I'll start on that-" he cleared his throat. "Now, then."

John nodded, still not moving.

Sherlock slowly let go of John's arm and walked slowly into the kitchen, trying not to tread into something that he would rather not have stuck on his bare feet.

John didn't move from the doorway.

It was, even from Sherlock's point of view, incredibly unnerving.

* * *

**Witches' brew. :3 Sherlock's a bad boy.**

**Two weeks into October! Seventeen more days until Halloween! Get those costumes ready and go buy some candy to hand out (if you're 'too old' to go trick or treating).**


	15. October 15th

**October 15th**

"There is something terribly illogical about this," Sherlock muttered, fingers running along his coat collar.

"About what?"

"Haunted houses." He flipped his collar up.

John rolled his eyes. "It's Halloween and people like to be scared."

"_Why_?" Sherlock asked. "It doesn't make any sense. They go into these haunted houses or mazes or factories, knowing what they're getting into, but yet, they still scream and sob when something actually jumps out at them."

"It's the lure of being scared."

"It's stupid."

John sighed. "So you keep saying."

Sherlock swiped a bit of fake cobweb away from the staircase. "There is nothing remotely interesting about being scared. The one time that I experienced fear... The one time that I experienced fear was during the case at Dartmoor. There is nothing even remotely enticing about being frightened."

Not that he particularly _tried_ to remember the day that Dartmoor had gotten the better of him, but the nagging after-effect of the way that he had felt during that case still stuck with him. Of course, experiencing a certain emotion for the first time in a long, long time tended to do that to people.

He hadn't thought it was amusing at all, so the whole idea of haunted houses was simply _idiotic_.

"Sherlock, _you_ experiencing fear is a lot different than anyone _else_ experiencing fear. You freak out when you have any emotion, but it's normal to, well, normal people."

Sherlock smirked. "I would rather be abnormal."

"Trust me, you wouldn't be _you_ if you weren't abnormal."

"I'll take that as a compliment." He peered into one of the rooms before turning and continuing down the hall. "But I still don't understand."

"You know how you got all amped up after seeing what you thought was the Hound?"

"'Amped up'? I was not 'amped up'. If you recall, my body was betraying me," Sherlock said in a flat voice.

"You were shaking, yeah. But you didn't get the moment that's flight or fight? The adrenalin rush?"

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "I don't remember."

Flight or fight. It was an automatic reflex. He'd had flight or fight before, had it loads of times on cases, but the Hound hadn't given him flight or fight. The Hound had made him weak at the knees and made his eyes sting and his body tremble. There hadn't been particularly any adrenalin, just utmost terror.

John sighed. "Okay, take a case for instance. Running into traffic?" he reminded dryly.

Sherlock nodded. "I understand adrenalin; adrenalin is wonderful. But I don't understand how people who get scared by such ridiculous antics have an adrenalin rush. If their lives were really in danger, it would be understandable, but a fancy dress party or a haunted house shouldn't bother them."

"Our bodies can't differentiate between real danger and fake danger."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "They should."

"Well, not all of us are perfect like you."

Sherlock smirked again and was just about to comment when the stairs under his feet gave out. He and John both went tumbling.

"Ow..." John muttered, sitting up. "I thought all of the stuff was supposed to be turned off while we investigated."

Sherlock sighed, getting back to his feet. "They probably missed the stairs." He looked back down at John. "Yeah, this is just so much fun. Stairs collapsing. How terrifying."

"I think I have a bruise..." John muttered, standing up slowly.

"Haunted houses. Great idea."

"Oh, shut up," John muttered, rubbing his arm as he stood.

* * *

**Thank you to both DreamsOfPari and SherlockWholmes for this idea. :)**

**I still do not own _Sherlock_. Thanks for all your support and keep it coming! **


	16. October 16th

**October 16th**

"We should dress up to hand out sweets," John commented.

Sherlock missed the note on his violin, his bow gliding across the strings to hit _b_ instead of the _c_ that he'd been going for. His hand fell to his side, the bow whipping through the air. _"What?"_

John glanced up. "Dressing up. To hand out sweets."

Sherlock stared at him blankly.

"Oh, come on, Sherlock! We're on Baker Street. There's a Tube station, for goodness sake. We're on a busy stretch."

Sherlock didn't remove his gaze. "Yes, we are, but that does not have any bearing on the sentence that you started this conversation with."

John blinked. "What? We're handing out sweets, Sherlock."

Sherlock scowled. "But the thing about... dressing up. I sincerely hope that you mean suit and tie, not fancy dress."

"Of course I mean fancy dress; it's Halloween."

"I am not dressing up like an _idiot_ and I am not handing out sweets. This is the end of this conversation," Sherlock said, drawing his bow back to the strings.

"You can and you will, or I'll... do something."

"Oooh, threatening," Sherlock replied, smirking as he fell back into the complex and delicious mind of Beethoven.

"I think you'd make a nice Jack."

Sherlock removed his bow again. "I am not dressing up as Jack Skellington. More likely than not, I will be working on a case."

"You do realise that I'm not going to let you off so easy?" John asked, the smile evident in his voice.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Do as you like, John."

"Oh, I _shall_..."

* * *

**Oh, you know it's not the end of this conversation. :p**


	17. October 17th

**October 17th**

Sherlock coughed as he pushed himself back to his feet, or, at least, a sitting position. He glared up at John. "Stop laughing."

"Sorry. Your face..."

Sherlock untangled his foot from the pumpkin vine, getting back to his feet. He brushed dirt from his coat and straightened his scarf.

"Maybe watch your feet?" John asked innocently, smiling.

"Well, if you hadn't dragged me out here, anyway."

A pumpkin patch! Of all things! John wanted to go get pumpkins, some rubbish about how they needed something to sit on the front step and the main hallway and... for whatever reason, Sherlock had gotten dragged along after their visit to New Scotland Yard.

"Oh, come on. Just help me and we can get back home. It's cold."

"I noticed," Sherlock muttered. "How about this one?" he asked, toeing one of the orange globe-like structures.

John frowned. "Come on, Sherlock, it's got a hole in the side."

Sherlock shrugged. "Rotting things are for Halloween, are they not?"

John rolled his eyes. "This one is kind of nice," he said, crouching next to one.

Sherlock edged away, peering through the pumpkins. He stopped next to a nother one, finding it to be perfectly whole. "John?"

"Hm?" John walked over, turning the pumpkin over. "Well, it's flat on one side..."

Sherlock sighed intolerably.

"But it's alright," John added quickly. "If you want it."

"I don't want any of them," Sherlock retorted. He shoved his hands in his pockets and slumped his shoulders in what John tended to call a sulk. He trumped away, making sure to pick up his feet over the winding pumpkin vines.

He came to a patch of smaller pumpkins- not even ones large enough to be carved. Smaller than pie pumpkins, actually, small enough to fit in his hand. He crouched next to them, picking one up. They were all perfect, if not tiny, but would be perfect for some experiments. He broke them free of their vine and collected a few of the best specimens.

When John went to ask Sherlock what he wanted for dinner later that night, he found Sherlock fast asleep in his room. As per usual, he hadn't changed out of his clothes and he wasn't even covered up by the duvet, but that wasn't what caught John's attention.

Sitting smartly on top of Sherlock's alarm clock was one of the mini pumpkins Sherlock had picked out earlier. John had been almost sure that they had all gone towards the experiment that left the flat smelling like pumpkin pie. Somehow, this one hadn't been sacrificed.

John smiled and rolled his eyes, closing the door after he left the room.

* * *

**Mini pumpkins are so cute. And I think Sherlock would be cute in a pumpkin patch. Chibi!lock in a pumpkin patch? No? Hmm... :p**


	18. October 18th

**October 18th**

"Do you believe in ghosts?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

John glanced up. "Eh?"

"Do you believe in ghosts?" Sherlock asked again, enunciating each word as though he was talking to someone he thought to be stupid.

John frowned. "Why are you asking?"

"I just wondered. You know, All Hallow's Eve and all that stuff..."

"Well, then... yeah, I do."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Why?"

John sighed. "If you're going to insult my views, why ask?"

"I'm not insulting you."

"You made a face."

"It's my face," Sherlock retorted. "I just asked why you believe in ghosts."

John shook his head. "It's just, well, you know, because of the war and stuff."

"Those are miracles," Sherlock said dryly, "not ghosts. Although I guess it's interesting to know that you believe in those, then."

"No," John replied testily. "Just feeling people there that weren't there, hearing whispers in the dark..."

Sherlock could feel his expression souring as John talked.

"Look, you asked, I told you," John said.

"You do realise that that is all fancy of your brain? You entertain the fact that there may be beings with unresolved business in this world and because of this, your mind runs with the possibility. You should restrain that."

"I don't want to restrain it. I believe in ghosts; you don't have to," John retorted.

"I don't," Sherlock replied.

"Because you can't prove their existence, right?"

Sherlock nodded.

"You can't prove they _don't_ exist."

Sherlock tilted his head slightly. "That is true, I suppose... but I doubt that I put much research into something that is so pseudoscientifically 'proven' or 'disproven', depending on your source material."

"In other words, 'dull'," John muttered.

Sherlock shrugged. "Yeah."

"Why did you ask, then?"

Another shrug. "Don't know. I was bored."

John sighed and stood. "Is lunch dull in your mind today?"

"No," Sherlock replied. "I want lunch." He stood as well. "Let's go out. Angelo's?"

"Sounds good to me."

Sherlock was quiet for a few minutes as he and John walked side-by-side to Angelo's. "You know, there was a case of someone who was in jail who got killed... Supernatural involvement was expected."

"And?"

"It was poison," Sherlock said cheerfully.

John rolled his eyes. "I thought you had a point."

"No, I didn't. I was just talking about my experiments with so-called supernatural activity."

"You're not going to let it go, are you?"

Sherlock opened the door to Angelo's. "Not until I have something else interesting to talk about."

"What about the haunted maze that's open tomorrow?"

Sherlock sighed. "Don't tell me..."

"I can find someone else to go with, but I figured you'd want to do an experiment or something."

Sherlock grabbed the menu and scanned through it. "We shall see..."

* * *

**Thanks to Storylover18 for an idea of ghosts... although I'm pretty sure I didn't do it justice. :p**

**Still don't own ****_Sherlock_****. :p Thanks for all your support thus far! Keep it coming!**


	19. October 19th

**October 19th**

"Now someone's going to jump out from around that corner..." Sherlock murmured, leaning closer to John.

John stepped away. "Stop that. You're ruining it."

Sherlock smiled sardonically. "There's going to be a chainsaw..."

John scowled. "You're ruining the surprise! Stop telling me when people are going to jump out; that's the point of the haunted maze!"

Sherlock bit his lip to keep from laughing.

"... That was rubbish," John muttered when they had stepped out of the haunted maze. "It might not have been rubbish if you hadn't bloody told me everything that was going to happen."

Sherlock sighed. "Like I said, John, I don't see the appeal of haunted houses or mazes. It is completely irrational to want to be scared, especially by such terrible effects."

"You keep saying, but I quite like it. That's what Halloween's all about."

"If it means that much to you," Sherlock started sarcastically.

"How can anything trivial be meaningful when I live with you? You shoot everything down."

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond to find that he didn't have a response. He didn't need one; Lestrade texted him just then with details about a burglary.

John seemed to be in a sour mood the rest of the night. Sherlock had no good idea why... Was a haunted house really that big of a deal? It was just being _scared_ and who cared about that? Well... except John, apparently.

John gathered up his pyjamas and dressing gown, heading downstairs. It had been a long day and he just wanted a hot shower and to go to bed. He didn't see Sherlock around, which was fine. He wasn't really angry with him- just slightly put out. At least he had learned something... that he should never go to places where he wanted to be surprised with Sherlock. As if he hadn't learned that during the ridiculous Chinese circus he and Sarah (and Sherlock) had gone to. What a nightmare.

He closed the bathroom door behind himself, sighing heavily. He pulled his jumper up over his head and worked on the buttons on his shirt, letting it fall. He had just kicked his trousers off when he turned to the shower to turn the water on.

He would deny the yelp that left his lips when something suddenly grabbed his arm.

John swatted at the grip that turned out to be a long, pale hand, wrenching free... only to hear rumbling laughter coming from the shower. John gathered his wits and glared around the shower curtain.

Sherlock was leaning against the wall, _in_ the shower, laughing quietly to himself.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed. "What the _hell_ are you doing?"

Sherlock lithely pushed the shower curtain aside, stepping out of the shower and smoothing his clothes. "You seemed despondent after I ruined your haunted maze outing, so I decided that I would scare you to make up for it."

John just stared at him blankly. He didn't know whether to laugh or be angry. After a few moments, he actually just sighed. "Get out, Sherlock."

Sherlock smiled and put his hands his pockets, striding out of the bathroom. He closed the door behind him.

John stared at the closed door for a moment before shaking his head.

Sometimes, he thought with a faint smile, he really just didn't know about that man.

* * *

**Abrupt POV change for a reason :p I love these boys.**


	20. October 20th

**October 20th**

It was a headache that started the chain of motion.

By lunch time, Sherlock was exhausted and by tea time, he'd developed a cough. He tried to hide it from John... and promptly failed. One cough was all it took for John's doctor instinct to raise its head and run through a list of possible ailments.

He had settled on a common cold and Sherlock, who had guessed this as much, huddled down on the couch with a blanket and a cup of tea.

"Did you take any meds?"

"Had some this morning," Sherlock muttered, leaning back in the corner of the sofa.

"So you can have some more." John walked away.

Sherlock sipped at his tea, closing his eyes. His throat hurt and the cough was irritating. The honey that John had added to the tea was even better for those problems, not that he would ever admit it.

"Here," John said, handing over two of the cold medicine tabs.

Sherlock swallowed them down with a mouthful of tea and jabbed the button on the remote. "Is there anything on the telly?"

John shrugged. "Probably something Halloween. There's a marathon for the rest of the month."

Sherlock flipped through channels emotionlessly, feeling either like he was going to fall asleep or melt through a hole in the sofa because of boredom. The latter was unlikely; former, not so much. He yawned and took another drink of his tea.

He wasn't sure how, but one moment he was staring with drooping eyelids towards the television, mug balanced on his thigh, and the next, he was sprawled out across the couch and waking up at eleven-thirty at night.

He stretched slightly, sniffling as he coaxed his transport to its feet. It was only after sitting up did he realise that he had another blanket on him- one he hadn't wrapped himself in. This one was black with pumpkins patterned across it. Sherlock frowned and pinched a corner of it, looking at it in disgust.

Then, he flung it across the room.

With another sniff, Sherlock grabbed his own blanket and shuffled back to his bedroom.

* * *

**No idea why. John has Christmasy jumpers for the party in _Scandal_, so perhaps he has Halloweeny blankets? =p**

**Still don't own _Sherlock_. That's still Moffat and his wife.**


	21. October 21st

**October 21st**

"How are you feeling?" John asked, immediately, as Sherlock trudged out from his bedroom.

Sherlock sniffed and went for the teapot, dragging his blanket with him. "My nose is stuffed up."

"How's the headache and throat?"

"It's all right," Sherlock mumbled. He didn't add that it would be better after a cup of tea and he poured himself a steaming cup of tea; John must have just brewed this.

He added milk and sugar and took a drink... and immediately made a face afterwards. He raised his head and looked tiredly towards John.

"What kind of tea is this?"

John glanced up. "Oh, sorry; I forgot to tell you. It's pumpkin spice. I can make some Breakfast if you want."

Sherlock looked at the mug of tea tiredly. "No, this is already brewed..." He took another sip of the tea and licked his lips.

It wasn't bad, really, but it had been something of a shock to his tastebuds when he had been expecting everyday normal black tea or maybe Earl Grey. The spices were strong in this tea and he didn't know how he hadn't smelled it- oh, right, because his nose was stuffy.

He sniffled slightly and rubbed his nose, carrying his mug into the sitting room. "Why do we have pumpkin spice tea?"

John shrugged. "It's an autumn thing. Everything gets a pumpkin spice flavour around Halloween... Or Thanksgiving for the US. I guess."

Sherlock blinked slowly before taking another sip. "So it's another one of those holiday things," he muttered, resisting the urge to sigh.

"Yeah. Are you _sure_ you don't want something different?"

Sherlock glanced away from the trembling surface of the tea. "No, this is fine. The spices are..." He cleared his throat. "Good. Might be good for my nose. Clearing my nasal passages, I mean."

John nodded slightly. "Okay... if you're sure."

Sherlock looked back at his tea again before taking another gulp. Really, it wasn't bad at all. Perhaps this was one of the _alright_ holiday things. Perhaps.

* * *

**Because everything just seems to have a pumpkin spice flavour (at least in the US) right now. I don't know about pumpkin spice tea, but pumpkin spice coffee? That stuff is delicious.**

**Ten days until Halloween! (^w^)**


	22. October 22nd

**October 22nd**

Sherlock launched himself off the couch, shutting his laptop with a quick flick of his wrist. He stepped over the coffee table and sprinted across the sitting room, heading for the stairs.

"John," he called, taking the stairs two at a time. "John!"

Rounding the corner of the landing and very nearly taking himself out on the stairs, Sherlock caught his footing and bounded the last few steps to John's bedroom. He didn't bother to knock, but he didn't get to open the door, either.

John opened it just as Sherlock about to throw it open himself.

"Sherlock? What's wrong?"

Sherlock balanced his laptop on his forearm, wrenching it open again. "I want to make these!"

John frowned. "Sherlock..."

Sherlock licked his lips as the baking website he had accidentally happened upon. The website was for severed finger sugar cookies... a dessert specifically for All Hallow's Eve.

John's eyebrows knitted together. "Severed finger cookies? Really?" He looked up at Sherlock. "Are you on a baking spree or what?"

"I was looking for stuff for a case!" Sherlock retorted. "But I found these and I want to make them! If you prefer, I can actually cook _real_ fingers."

"Hey, don't get defensive." John looked back at the laptop. "So, what are these made out of?"

"Sugar cookie dough, pressed into the shape of a finger. The fingernail is an almond pressed into the cookie dough. Then you can dip them in coloured chocolate or icing if you'd like."

John nodded. "Alright. Sounds interesting, I guess. But why are you asking me?"

Sherlock tilted his head. "Because after the brew thing-"

"_Oh_." John blinked. "Alright, yeah, have at it. _But_ follow the recipe and watch it closely."

Sherlock grinned. "Come on, John. We have to go to Tesco first."

"Wait, _I'm_ helping?"

"Of course. We don't have a case, so..." Sherlock trailed off.

"So, we're going to bake fingers. Great. Alright, come on, get down the stairs."

Sherlock turned and closed his laptop, chatting about gross other creative cuisine, such as bleeding cupcakes or jelly eyeballs, as he and John descended the stairs.

* * *

**Kudos to WL Chastain for reminding me of Halloween baking goodies similar to an idea that WL suggested. :)**


	23. October 23rd

**October 23rd**

Sherlock rolled his eyes, leaning his head against the window.

"... That was... well, that was something, Anderson," John mumbled.

"It was stupid," Sherlock was flatly.

"I'd like to see you tell one that's better!" Anderson retorted.

Sherlock didn't look up. "I have no desire to tell horror stories."

John sighed, slumping a little further in their seat. His shoulder leaned slightly against Sherlock's and from the touch, Sherlock could tell that John hadn't gotten much sleep last night, he had a headache, and was getting annoyed.

Sherlock looked away from the countryside passing by and to John. They'd been on the bus for an hour now, he and John, and Greg and Anderson, Sally, and a few other people from the Yard. Going to a crime scene... on a bus, for some stupid reason, like it was some messed up field trip. It was horrible. He could see why John had a headache.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

John glanced up. "Yeah. I've just got a headache. Everyone needs to shut up."

Sherlock looked over John's shoulder to where Anderson was sitting. "Shut up."

John snickered, resting his head on his hand.

"Piss off," Anderson retorted, turning back to Sally to continue their conversation.

"Anderson," Lestrade chastised.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked back at John. "Might they shut up if I actually do tell them a horror story?"

John shrugged. "I'd kill for a paracetamol right now..."

"Funny enough, I don't think they would find that very much of a horror story," Sherlock said.

Now John rolled his eyes before raising his voice. "Oi, shut up. Sherlock's going to wow us with his story-telling skills."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows as all eyes turned to him. "Are you positive that you all don't want to gather in a circle around me?" he asked dryly. "Contrary to popular belief, it was _not_ a dark and stormy night..."

Anderson snorted.

Sherlock looked at him, raising an eyebrow. "Problem?"

"Don't you know how to start a ghost story?" Anderson sneered.

"Not in such a boring, generic way that you'd fall asleep within the first seven words," Sherlock replied bluntly.

"Keep going," John muttered.

"As I was saying, the temperature was actually around twenty-five Celsius. It was partly cloudy with the sun beating down upon a house in the residence of Cardiff..."

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock was less interested in the way that everyone was listening to him intently and more focussed on the horror elements of the story.

"And then, after he resurfaced from the cellar, he had five perfectly symmetrical gashes down his back, blood staining his shirt, dripping down his trousers to splatter the pavement below..."

A car horn honked.

Sherlock tensed infinitesimally and he watched the rest of their group on the bus jump, collectively, at the disruption of the story- even John.

Sherlock licked his lips in cover of hiding a smirk, forcing his face into a normal expression. "All right, John?" he asked.

John looked around at him. "Wha... Yeah."

"Your pulse is racing," Sherlock commented idly.

John took a deep breath that he probably thought was subtle. "I'm fine. How does your story end?"

"Hm?"

"The ghost story," Lestrade supplied, looking at him intently.

"Oh, that," Sherlock said. "I don't know the rest of the story. The guy that was telling me the story died," he said flippantly, turning back to the window.

The bus was silent.

Sherlock didn't look back around.

"Sherlock?" John said quietly.

Sherlock looked at John again. "Hm?"

"Was that story true?"

Sherlock tilted his head. "Of course it wasn't," he said, allowing a frown to overtake his lips. Honestly, why would John think it was real? The rest of the Yard may, but John was more intelligent than that.

John let out a deep breath.

"Maybe," Sherlock said coyly.

John shoved his shoulder. "You don't believe in the supernatural, so it had to be a made-up story."

Sherlock smiled slightly. "Very good deduction, John... but they don't need to know that," he said, looking back to the window.

* * *

**Thanks to Lady Juse for the inspiration for this chapter. :)**


	24. October 24th

**October 24th**

"No no _NO!_" Sherlock yelled, hunching down further in his chair. "That's the wrong option; do you not have any logic in your brain?!"

John glanced up. "What are you doing... Oh, crap telly. Fantastic."

Sherlock looked away from the television, doing a double take afterwards. "What is all _that_ rubbish?" he asked, noting the shopping bags in John's hands.

He, of course, deduced what was in the bag almost immediately after asking the question. The excess of the colours orange and black almost nearly designated Halloween. The fact that the packages in the shopping bags were pliable, that they crinkled when moved, the weight of the bags as proven by the way John was holding them- adding in the idea about the colouring of the bags themselves- signified sweets. Halloween sweets, in fact. Which meant that John was thinking about trick or treating again.

What a waste of time.

"Sweets," John replied.

Sherlock sighed and pressed the volume button down, cutting off sound from the television. "Let me guess. You're still intent on handing out sweets to children in costume."

John dropped the bags onto the table. "Of course I am. You're going to help."

"I am not, John. I am not re-living this conversation." He got to his feet and cracked his back, wincing as other joints popped with it.

"Make it into an experiment. See how many kids stop by or what sweets they seem to fancy."

Sherlock thought for a moment. "I suppose. But I can do that from watching at the window."

"Not the preference thing."

"And I suppose that you won't keep track of it for me, will you?" Sherlock asked, pouring himself a cup of tea.

John smiled. "Not at all."

Sherlock sipped at his tea. "I would imagine Reese's. Did you get those?"

"Of course."

"Snickers?"

"Yes."

"Skittles?"

"Yes."

"Smarties?"

"Yes."

"Ugh," Sherlock muttered, taking another drink of his tea.

John laughed. "You don't like Smarties?"

"If it helps, I don't like dummies, either," Sherlock said dryly, taking his tea back to his chair. "Unless they're being used in a murder case."

John rolled his eyes. "Yeah, right. Anyway, I've already got my costume."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "And what are you going to be? A doctor?"

John snorted. "Don't be stupid. I _am_ a doctor. You'll just have to wait until Halloween to see."

Sherlock sighed in annoyance.

When John wasn't home, he'd just sneak into John's room and look for the costume himself. Wait for Halloween, indeed.

* * *

**Pardon my lack of British sweets knowledge... I have no idea if they have these sweets in Britain because I know some things go by slightly different names. So apologies... I may go back and fix it when I have time to do some research on British sweets. :p**


	25. October 25th

**October 25th**

Sherlock groaned, ruffling his hair.

He'd been through John's room _twice_ at this point and still found nothing what he himself would call a costume. He realised that he didn't have a huge idea of what passed as a costume and what didn't, but he didn't see anything that looked out of the ordinary.

He was so preoccupied that he didn't hear footsteps on the stairs.

"What are you doing?"

Sherlock jumped, immediately swivelling to look at the doorway.

"What are you doing in my room?" John repeated, his eyes flickering past Sherlock and to the rest of his room.

Sherlock's nostrils flared in irritation. "You don't have a costume."

John frowned. "What?"

"A costume; a Halloween costume!"

The confusion cleared from his flatmate's face. "Oh... You're snooping around my room because of my _costume_?" John asked.

An idea suddenly lit up Sherlock's eyes. "Oh! _Oh!_ You're going to be a soldier for Halloween!"

John rolled his eyes. "Really? Do you really think I'm going to be a soldier?"

"You have nothing else," Sherlock said defiantly.

John smiled coyly. "You think I'd leave my costume in plain sight for you to see? I figured that you'd probably snoop... Not that I like it," he added dryly.

Sherlock scowled. "You're _hiding_ your costume from me."

John smiled and ushered Sherlock out of his room. "I'm not particularly hiding it. You just aren't looking where you should be."

Sherlock frowned and let himself be led out of the room. "Where else would you possibly be hiding it?"

"I'm not going to tell you that. It's almost Halloween. I think you can wait."

"Waiting is not my strong suit," Sherlock muttered, throwing himself onto the sofa with a heavy sigh.

John rolled his eyes. "I know. Want some tea?"

"I'd rather have hot chocolate," Sherlock replied lazily, steepling his fingers beneath his chin.

"Of course you would," John muttered, but Sherlock heard him open the cupboard to get the cocoa out, anyway.

* * *

**For those who guessed soldier or doctor for John, no... but good guesses. :p**

**I do not own _Sherlock_.**


	26. October 26th

**October** **26th**

"What if...I made caramel covered apples-" Sherlock started.

"_You're_ going to make caramel covered apples?"

"- and instead of-" John's interruption threw him off and he looked at him. "Wait, what's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. I just figured that you'd never had a caramel apple before."

"Consuming a caramel apple is not the same as creating a caramel apple, I am sure," Sherlock said. "But, anyway-"

"Well, consuming a caramel apple is probably the prelude to making them at home," John said, looking back out the window.

Sherlock sighed intolerably. "I don't want caramel apples. Let me finish." He leaned back against the cab door and looked at John intently. "If I make caramel apples, but instead of using apples, I cover _onions_ with caramel and give them to Anderson and my brother..."

Much to Sherlock's delight, he actually got a laugh out of John.

"Come on, Sherlock, behave. That's rude."

"Anderson and Mycroft are rude by default; they exist," Sherlock replied easily.

Sherlock could practically hear John roll his eyes. "Anderson's a clot but Mycroft does care, you know," his flatmate said.

Sherlock inhaled heavily though his nose. He didn't argue- the point was moot, but he didn't want to talk about it- and instead pressed on with his idea. "Obviously, I'd have to trim the onion a bit so it looks more round like an apple, but I definitely think it's possible."

"And you think caramel is going to stick to an onion?" John asked, looking back at him.

Sherlock shrugged a shoulder. "With some research, I'll be able to find out."

"And you think that they couldn't smell the onion?"

"Again, research." The smell was, of course, the big problem. The caramel sticking didn't seem to Sherlock to be a great topic of research, but would the onion still smell under the cover of melted caramel?

"You realise that I'm not going to let you do this, right?"

Sherlock's face fell infinitesimally. "What? John, you thought it was funny!" he protested.

"It is funny, sort of, but it's cruel and you're not doing it. Why don't you make some more of those finger cookies and put some fake blood on them like you cut off people's fingers- which you do- and give them out?"

Sherlock perked up again.

John frowned slightly. "... Actually, why am I egging you on?"

Sherlock smirked and looked back to his cab window, ideas flying through his mind.

* * *

**This is more an autumn one, too, but Ballykissangel mentioned caramel covered onions for a trick and I just thought it was absolutely hilarious and actually something I can see Sherlock doing. So, thank you for the creative mention, Ballykissangel.**

**Okay, some housekeeping. Apparently, Smarties aren't called Smarties in Britain. Or maybe Brits have Smarties different than to what I picture Smarties to be. I'm not going to change it- there's a joke Sherlock poses that stems off of that line, so forgive that if it bothers you. Secondly, thanks to EI Cochrane for the clarification between candy/sweet(ies). Thirdly- and perhaps the most important- do you, my English readers, go trick or treating? I never paused to think that perhaps UK Hallow's Eve is different than US- an error on my behalf. I try to make my stories as much Brit-picked as possible, but I am still learning. :) And I am still American, so, while I try, I'm not perfect. I just want to clear up any errors that I may have.**

**Anyway! Hey, guess what? There's only five days until Halloween! Although most of the trick or treats are probably actually this weekend, so have fun with your tricking or treating (I'd suggest treating), whether or not you dress up to go out or simply to hand out treats!**


	27. October 27th

**October 27th**

Sherlock licked corn syrup off of his fingers, wincing at the terrible sweetness of it all. He wasn't a fan of sweets, but this was for Hallow's Eve, after all.

He heard footsteps on the stairs and his eyes widened slightly; he grabbed the jars nearby and screwed the lids back onto them. He'd just high-tailed it back to his bedroom with all of his supplies when John stepped into the sitting room.

"Sherlock? Are you here?"

Sherlock lined up all of the jars neatly on the top shelf of his closet. "Yes, of course," he called, closing his closet door again.

He ducked into the bathroom to wash his hands, giving himself a once over in the mirror. Everything seemed to rather be in place.

"You've been to the pub," he said, stepping into the kitchen with a bored expression.

John glanced up from rummaging in the cupboard. "Oh, yeah. What have you been doing today, then?"

Sherlock glanced down at his rumpled T-shirt and pyjama pants. "Sleeping," he said simply, shuffling past John to get to the kettle.

John raised his eyebrows and looked back to the cupboard, grabbing a packet of crisps. "You don't look like you were asleep." He closed the cupboard.

"I woke up about ten minutes ago. I was thinking."

"Ah." John didn't seem interested, which was good. He just popped the bag of crisps open and headed back to the sitting room.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "You're tired."

John flopped onto the sofa. "Yes."

"It's barely past nine."

John sighed. "Yeah. But I'll probably have a shower and go to bed."

Sherlock took a seat in his chair, pressing the power button the remote. "D'you want to watch _Nightmare Before Christmas_? It came on at nine."

John looked at him. "I thought you didn't like it."

Sherlock shrugged, flipping channels. "It's fine. You like it."

John looked at him, intently, for a long moment before he looked to the television.

Sherlock felt vaguely unsettled but he didn't comment, just stared towards a spot on the wall behind the television, thinking.

* * *

**It's short and not very Halloween-y, but actually a bit fluffy and more than a little bit mysterious. :p From this chapter onwards, the chapters will be interrelated. You don't have to necessarily read them in order, but you probably should.**

**Don't own _Sherlock_. Your thoughts are always appreciated. Thank you.**


	28. October 28th

**October 28th**

When the gunshot went off, Sherlock wasn't particularly worried.

John was, though.

It was funny. John cared _so_ much.

Sherlock went down with a _thud_- which hurt- narrowly missing cracking his head open on the pavement.

"Sherlock!"

John's voice was so full of panic that Sherlock, for the first time, had misgivings. But, no, he didn't have _regrets_. That was a sentimental thing.

"Sherlock, _Sherlock_. Hang on, just hang on, I'll call an ambulance," John muttered, talking a mile a minute as he pressed his hands firmly against the red darkening Sherlock's already dark blue shirt. The pressure just created a wave of more red, staining John's hands as he pressed down.

He did, however, have the ability to act. And so, he moaned and curled up slightly, squeezing his eyes closed.

Apparently this spurred more panic into John because the pressure on Sherlock's chest increased. Maybe because Sherlock was rarely vocal to pain.

He whimpered and curled onto his side. "John..."

"Hang on. It's okay, hang on. Where the _hell_ is my phone?" John swore.

"John..."

"Shhh."

"John..." He tried to stop his lips from twitching up, and failed spectacularly. He tried to choke back his laughter, failed there, too, and felt the laughter rumble up straight from deep into his chest. No doubt that John felt the vibration of it, too.

John stopped talking sharply, looking down at him.

Sherlock laughed freely, raising his hand to smear 'blood' on John's face. It was red food colouring and corn syrup, with a bit of water, terribly sticky and with the risk of permanently staining his clothes.

"Sherlock- Sherlock-" John seemed to have lost his words. "You..."

"_Trick_ or treat, John," Sherlock said, sitting up. He was still laughing and tried to stop; it really wasn't _that_ funny and, after all, they were in public.

John wasn't laughing. He was just staring at him.

"Corn syrup," Sherlock said cheerfully, pulling out three different sandwich bags with the red corn syrup in it. He'd had them under his shirt and had just applied enough pressure to them to make the press and snap seal bust open. "Got you," he said coyly.

One minute, John was staring at him blankly. The next, Sherlock felt pain, _real_ pain, exploding against his left cheek. He fell back from the motion, barely catching himself before he could hit his head. His head swam from the pain against his cheekbone and he worked his jaw, rubbing the spot where the pain had erupted from.

It took him a second to realise that John had _punched_ him.

"John-" Sherlock trailed off as John stood and strode away, pivoting on his heel, military stance in the way he held himself and walked.

Sherlock didn't move, just continued to rub his jaw, eyebrows furrowed in pain and confusion.

* * *

**Sherlock wasn't _trying_ to be a git, but... he just doesn't understand 'a bit not good' until someone mentions it. So, is it poor Sherlock... or poor John? Perhaps a little bit of both.**


	29. October 29th

**October 29th**

Sherlock made tea, just the way John liked it and everything. The doctor had come down from his room in the morning- he'd been up there since last night, since he'd gotten back home (John had walked back to Baker Street after Sherlock's prank gone wrong)- picked up the tea and sat down in front of the TV without a word.

Really, Sherlock still didn't know what he had done or why John was in such a snit. John had pulled the same exact thing to Sherlock and Sherlock hadn't punched anyone out for it. He had worried- briefly and in a mute way- but he hadn't punched him for it.

Sentiment, he guessed, although he couldn't be sure.

He didn't know what else to do. He'd made tea. He certainly wasn't going to apologise. John was still acting backwards and Sherlock decided to do what he did best in the face of adversity- ignore it.

He picked up his violin and bow and planted himself in front of the window. If John wanted to be persnickety, Sherlock could be the same way back. He idly put his bow to the strings and played a few notes over the muted noise of the early morning newscast on BBC. John didn't say anything, which meant that he wasn't watching the news to begin with.

Sherlock rifled through a few of his sheets of music, settling on one of the newest. Certain music that he had acquired in the past month. He focussed his brain, his fingers, on their notes rather than just playing idle-minded notes.

"Stop it," John said suddenly.

Sherlock didn't stop, although he did pause before continuing.

"I know what you're doing."

Sherlock shifted his eyes towards John. "I'm playing the violin."

"You're playing 'Poor Jack' from the movie."

Sherlock stifled a smile. "Am I?"

John scowled and leaned back into the cushions of the sofa. "If this is you apologising, you're rubbish at it."

"I don't understand why I need to apologise," Sherlock said bluntly, removing his bow from the strings and setting his violin down on the table.

"You scared the living shit out of me, Sherlock. I thought you were dying."

Sherlock stared at him blankly. "It was the same thing you did with your fake crime scene."

"I didn't do it right in front of you! You don't have emotions, either! You don't react like normal people!"

Sherlock frowned. "I would take that as a compliment, except I'm still unsure on the concepts of Halloween. I thought that we were supposed to trick each other."

"Not by pretending like you're dying!"

"That's what you did!"

"But you didn't panic, either!"

"Well, it wasn't a pleasant discovery," Sherlock retorted, throwing himself into his chair.

John watched him for a moment before sighing. "Look. It's just a bit not good, is all. You handle emotion better than I do, or, at least, you repress emotion more than I do. If you panic, it's muted panic."

"Whereas you have a full-scale panic attack," Sherlock filled in.

"To put it mildly."

"But you _punched_ me," Sherlock said, touching his jaw gingerly.

"Yes... and I probably shouldn't have done that, but I was angry." John flicked his eyes to Sherlock's cheek. "Did you put ice on that?"

Sherlock slumped further into his chair. "A bit. It doesn't hurt anymore, not really."

John sighed again, quietly. "Well, you learned something. _I_ learned something."

"I learned not to play pranks on you because you overreact?"

John rolled his eyes. "And I learned _not_ to overreact because you're a terrible git who doesn't understand boundaries."

Sherlock grinned. "You didn't know that already?"

John sighed. "Don't it again."

"No," Sherlock agreed. "I prefer not to get punched any more than I have already."

John shook his head. "You ponce."

There was affection in his voice and Sherlock leaned back in his chair, smiling faintly to himself. They were okay. For reasons more sentimental than Sherlock cared to entertain, that made him very happy indeed.

* * *

**If you've never seen _The Nightmare Before Christmas_, you won't get the part with 'Poor Jack' being the song Sherlock's playing, so you may want to give it a listen. It fits very well, and, you know, even if you have seen it, you can never hear too much _t__NBC_. Thanks to Lady Juse for the idea of Sherlock and this song.**

**Thanks, also, for everyone who has clarified British to American differences for Hallow's Eve and related things. I appreciate it greatly; like I said, I'm still learning and this helps. Thanks to the people who have been mentioning ideas for chapters as well. I've figured the 30th and 31st out, but I do appreciate the ideas, too.**


	30. October 30th

**October 30th**

"I'll dress up..."

John's head snapped up as though he had been shot.

Sherlock sighed. "Don't get excited."

"Did you just _agree_ to dress up?" John asked incredulously, his mug of tea still halfway to his lips.

"I said don't get excited," Sherlock said dryly. "Not that many kids will probably visit, but I'll dress up."

John looked completely flabberghasted.

Sherlock smiled coyly. "I'll dress up as a consulting detective."

The shocked look on John's face was replaced with an annoyed one. "You can_not_ dress up as a consulting detective."

Sherlock tilted his head. "Why not?"

"Because you _are_ a consulting detective."

"Well, then I'll be myself," Sherlock replied.

"No."

"I'll wear the hat," Sherlock said, somewhat begrudgingly.

John paused before continuing. "As much as I would love to see that, still no," he said, although he was infinitely more hesitant this time.

Sherlock sighed. "What am I supposed to dress up as, then?"

"I don't know. I'm sure you can think of something."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, staring into his cup of tea. Unfortunately, he didn't have many ideas for what was acceptable for costumes or not. He had never had time for Halloween or the trick or treat each year. And since John had said he couldn't dress up as a consulting detective...

"I'll dress up as you," Sherlock said suddenly, looking up at John again.

"_No_," John replied almost immediately.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I wasn't serious, anyway. I don't have jumpers and yours won't fit. Arms are too short," he muttered, looking back at his tea.

He could practically _hear_ John's eyeroll. "Sorry that your arms are freakishly long."

Sherlock wasn't listening. He was too busy trying to think of a costume...

He was going to have to do some research.

* * *

**In which Sherlock spends all day out at the stores, comes home at midnight to do online research for fancy dress, and then falls asleep ten minutes before trick or treat starts. lolno. You'll see ;)**

**I do not own _Sherlock_.**


	31. October 31st

**October 31st**

Sherlock heard John knocking on the bathroom door, but he had both doors locked to keep his flatmate out.

"Sherlock, come on. I've got to use the loo."

"There's a perfectly accessible bathroom downstairs," Sherlock said dryly, not moving away from the mirror.

"I'm not going down to Speedy's."

"Then shut up and wait," Sherlock retorted. He reached for one of the jars of fake blood he had made a few days ago. His fingers knocked into the other array of costume make-up that he had stashed on the countertop. Pencils and tubes went flying. He just managed to catch the black make-up crayon before it could hit the floor. The rest went clattering.

"Sherlock? What are you doing?"

Sherlock straightened up, twisting the crayon so that it settled correctly between his fingers. "I'm working. Leave me alone." He leaned closer to the mirror.

"I've got to get ready, Sherlock."

"There's a mirror in your bedroom; get ready there."

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock resisted the urge to wrench the bathroom door open to throw a few snide comments at John. Of course, this would reveal his costume and it wasn't finished yet. Instead, he just sighed through his nose. "I have to stop talking now, John. I suggest you do the same."

* * *

Sherlock carefully picked everything up and took it back to his room, replacing it where he had been hiding it for the past few days. And then, once John was in the bathroom, Sherlock grabbed his coat and took off.

It was only when John texted him a half an hour later that Sherlock mentioned he'd gone out. John simply sent a text back that said to be back by beggar's night time.

* * *

When Sherlock got back to the flat, he didn't immediately go inside. Instead- after making sure his coat was buttoned up and his collar flipped up- he simply knocked. He sincerely hoped that John would answer the door; Mrs Hudson had been out when Sherlock had gone out, anyway.

Thankfully, John _did_ open the door.

"Isn't it a- _Sherlock_?"

Sherlock leaned heavily against the door frame. "Trick or treat," he said sarcastically, coughing slightly.

"Sherlock, what _happened_?" John asked, reaching out to grab Sherlock's shoulder to pull him into the flat.

Sherlock yelped when John grabbed his arm, making John efficiently drop his arm again.

"What happened? What's wrong with you, get in here," John said, ushering him inside. "You're covered in blood!"

Sherlock limped over the threshold, coughing again for good measure. "You know... my general job and such."

John grabbed at the lapels of Sherlock's coat, impatiently unbuttoning it. He stopped once he got to the third button and Sherlock watched the confusion flicker across his doctor's face. When John looked up again, Sherlock grinned.

"Sherlock... Why are you wearing a lab coat?"

Sherlock's grin didn't falter.

"It's... you _clot_," John said, slapping his shoulder. "You're not hurt at all!"

Sherlock smiled and removed his coat, hanging it on the doorknob. "No. Where's _your_ costume?"

"Why are you wearing _my_ doctor stuff?" John retorted, reaching for the stethoscope around Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock swatted his hand away. "I'm a zombie doctor. Because most doctors are zombies, anyway."

John gave him a dry look. "Nice."

"Thanks," Sherlock said cheerfully, starting up the stairs. "So, you're not dressed up. The children will be here in twenty minutes."

"I was just working on it," John said, following him upstairs. "Is that liquid latex, that you made your scars and stuff from?"

"No. Like I would use store bought such things. It's a mixed solution of glycerin and gelatin. If you needed some, I had some leftover," Sherlock said easily.

John sighed. "No, that's not what I need, but it does look cool."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Well, it feels like my face is falling apart, so hopefully it looks 'cool'." He flopped onto the sofa, the stethoscope bouncing against his chest. "Go get ready."

John rolled his eyes and went back to the bathroom to, assumingly, put on the correct costume make-up for his fancy dress.

* * *

"John, come on!" Sherlock complained, leaning against the hallway wall. "The kids are going to be here in a few minutes and I'm not doing this by myself."

"Oh how the roles have been reversed," John called from the bathroom. "Just a few more seconds."

Sherlock sighed and idly picked at some of his 'peeling' skin on his hands. He was constantly forgetting that he had the fake blood on his face; he kept accidentally smearing it all over the place. "This is tedious."

John set something down- sounded like the tube of cream make-up- before footsteps walked across the bathroom.

Sherlock perked up.

"Close your eyes," John said cheerfully from the other side of the bathroom door.

"John."

"Oh, just do it."

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes.

"Are they closed?"

"Yes," Sherlock said impatiently. "Come on."

Despite his strong desire, Sherlock did not open his eyes when John opened the bathroom door. He couldn't decide the costume from this sensory deprivation, but John wasn't wearing the same thing he had been. It actually sounded like...

"Alright."

Sherlock snapped his eyes open, quickly taking in John's appearance in front of him. Although, the only thing that really _clicked_ with his mind was-

"John, you're wearing my suit!"

John laughed. "No, I'm not. Well, your trousers, yeah, because I didn't have slacks... but the jacket isn't yours."

"You're wearing my clothes!"

John's laughter melted away to a sigh. "Trousers, Sherlock. Deal with it, you skinny git."

Sherlock fell silent about that particularly conversation, even though his nostrils were flaring with irritation. "You're Jack."

John smiled briefly. "Yes."

"The face paint gives it away," Sherlock said bluntly. He licked his thumb and reached over to wipe away a smudge of white where it shouldn't be.

"Stop it!"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and removed his hand. "Just fixing your paint, Mr Skellington. Nice bow tie, by the way." His head fell a few degrees to the side. "Did you order that specifically?"

John's grin slowly returned. It looked incredibly... odd... with Jack's smile extending from John's. "Yeah. And the tailcoat, hence the pinstripes."

Sherlock gave a little 'huh' before turning away. "Shall we?"

John laughed and walked past him. "You think it's creepy."

"Marginally. Jack wasn't particularly creepy, but you add a very strange element to it," Sherlock said, following him.

"You haven't seen my eyes closed yet."

"Why would I need to?"

"Because when I close my eyes, it makes it look like my entire eye socket is black."

"Black make-up on your eye lids... of course," Sherlock said shortly. "Effective to the costume and yet more convenient than a mask..."

"Yep. Get the candy."

"Where?"

"Table."

"Oh."

Sherlock backtracked and grabbed the bowl of candy from the table, striding after John down the stairs. "Well, Happy Halloween, _Jack_," he said sarcastically.

"And to you... dead doctor."

Sherlock grinned. He idly twirled a scalpel between his fingers and stabbed a mini candy bar with it. "Candy?" he said, offering the speared sweet to John.

"Sherlock, put that away!" John complained, grabbing the candy bar and setting it aside. "Give me that."

Sherlock defiantly put the scalpel back in his doctor's coat pocket. "Get away from my costume, John, before I rip your bow tie off."

"Just sit down," John said, sitting down on the front doorstep.

"I don't want to sit down." He paused. "Scaring the children is socially acceptable, isn't it?"

"_No_," John said firmly.

"I thought Halloween was about tricking people!" Sherlock protested.

"Not with your idea of pranks, it's not."

"I learned from that, John," Sherlock said, sinking onto the step next to him. "Besides, children wouldn't be sentimental towards me."

"Just smile, be nice, and hand out the candy," John muttered.

"Ugh."

"I know, it's so difficult."

Sherlock didn't reply, but instead started to root around the bowl of candy. He had barely begun to look before John slapped his hand away.

"What are you doing?" John asked. "Leave that alone."

"Give me some Skittles!" Sherlock said hotly. "If you don't want me to talk, I want Skittles."

John rolled his eyes and threw a 'fun-sized' package of Skittles at him.

Sherlock huffed and tore the package open, beginning to sort out the Skittles as he waited for trick or treat to begin.

* * *

**Happy Halloween!**

**So I loved the idea of John dressing up as Sherlock but you know I had to include _tNBC_ somehow. :p There were so many ideas for costumes, but I couldn't picture Sherlock being an actual character, so he took a page from John's book... being a doctor. I thought about making them into Scotland Yard employees, too, but settled on this.**

**On a nice little random note... There will be a bonus chapter! ;)**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Thank you!**


	32. A Boo-nus Chapter

**November 1st**

"John..."

"I can't do anything about it, Sherlock, shut up."

Sherlock was frankly _astounded_ that eating candy could result in such abdominal distress, but he literally could _not_ think of anything else except how badly his stomach hurt.

"Why didn't you tell me that I'd be sick?" he demanded, curling up tighter.

"God, Sherlock, I figured that you'd done this when you were a kid and knew better!"

"I only went trick or treating once when I was a kid!" Sherlock moaned. "Even then, I didn't eat my candy."

John sighed. "I can't do anything about it. Just go to sleep." He came over to the couch, shoving Sherlock's head away from the cushion. "Budge up."

Sherlock groaned and, instead of sitting up to move to the other end of the sofa, just squirmed down until he was literally curled into the middle of the sofa.

"Go back to bed," John said.

"I can't," Sherlock replied. "I can't move. I'm being eaten from the inside by a bunch of transport-betraying sweets." He squirmed around again and basically ended up with his head on John's lap. Which, of course, didn't go over well with his doctor.

"Sherlock, stop it. Go to bed!" John said, shoving at Sherlock's head again.

Sherlock swatted at his hand. "Stooop."

"You cannot sleep on my lap."

"I'm not sleeping." He winced and drew his legs impossibly closer to his chest, practically bumping into John's legs as he managed the smallest huddle he could.

"Sherlock..." John sighed again. "If you stop _fidgeting_," he said, pressing his hand firmly against Sherlock's shoulder, "you can lay here."

Sherlock stilled himself, trying to focus on anything except the gnawing, churning feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"_And_, if you're going to throw up, aim the _other_ way."

Sherlock licked his lips. "I'm not going to throw up." He hoped. "I deem Halloween a terrible holiday," he mumbled into John's jumper.

"Just don't eat so many sweets next year," John said, picking up the paper from the arm rest. "I think we did pretty well."

Sherlock shivered as John fanned the paper open. "_You_ did pretty well. The kids liked you."

He could practically hear John's smile. "You don't _want_ kids to like you," John reminded.

Sherlock smirked briefly. "No, I don't, do I?"

John laughed quietly before turning his attention back to his newspaper. After awhile, he asked "Did you dress up as a pirate?"

Sherlock opened his eyes a sliver. "What?"

"When you were little."

Sherlock didn't know whether or not to smile or feel awkward. "I don't see how that's relevant."

The paper crinkled as John looked at him. "Sherlock, you're laying on my lap because you're in so much pain from gorging yourself on Halloween sweets. I think it's relevant."

Sherlock sighed quietly. "Yes."

"Yes? As in, 'yes, John, I did dress up as a pirate'?"

Sherlock closed his eyes again. "You heard me. I'm not saying it again."

John laughed again. "Why didn't you go out every year?"

"Because," Sherlock said shortly.

Halloween had always been Sherlock's favourite holiday. He hadn't realised why back then, but it certainly made sense now. But, it had only been _his_ favourite holiday. Mum didn't like it, Father didn't like it, and Mycroft didn't like it. Sherlock had had to practically beg Mycroft- although he would rather face the most painful death before he admitted that- to take him trick or treating and, the one time that he did, Mycroft had complained the whole time. Mum had complained that they had to spend money on costumes and Father had complained that it was a waste of time and would result in more money spent at the dentist and Mycroft had complained that his little brother was a pain in his arse.

It had rather put Sherlock out.

So, he didn't bother with it anymore and, after this candy debacle, maybe never again.

John tweaked one of Sherlock's curls, drawing the detective from his reverie.

"Hm?"

"I asked if you were feeling better."

"Oh." Sherlock stretched experimentally and stopped almost immediately. "No," he said thinly, swallowing.

"It might help if you puke," John said dryly. "I know you don't want to hear it but it really might help."

Sherlock exhaled heavily through his nose and squeezed his eyes closed. He was not going to vomit if he could help it.

John sighed and turned back to his newspaper.

At some point, Sherlock was just about to doze off- his stomach didn't hurt nearly as bad if he wasn't moving and John was warm and dare he say cuddly (although if he said that aloud, he'd be retreating to his bedroom with a black eye). A bit of movement drew him back from the precipice and he unconsciously edged closer to John. No more than had he done this, a slightest pressure fluttered down over his body. He opened his eyes slightly and looked sleepily towards John to find that the doctor had just put the blanket over him. Sherlock closed his eyes again and sighed quietly.

"You know you're going to have to move some time. Or I'm going to have to move," John said. Sherlock could feel his eyes on him.

Sherlock gave a sort of "mmm". He couldn't find it in himself to open his mouth to speak.

"Just get some rest for now."

Sherlock gave a small smile, content to, for once, follow John's suggestion.

* * *

**Because the after-sweets hangover makes for some cute platonic cuddling. :) Thank you for all of your kind support for this story. If you read it to this point, liked it, didn't like, etc, please drop me a review on your thoughts. I hope you all had a lovely Halloween.**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. I wish I did... or at least, wish I worked on _Sherlock_. Wouldn't that be fantastic? Thank you!**


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